


Shoot Fellas As Needs Shooting

by pikablob



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur kills Micah, Chapter 2: Horseshoe Overlook (Red Dead Redemption 2), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 14:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21411988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikablob/pseuds/pikablob
Summary: "It was point-blank. The volcanic pistol roared with fury and spat death."Arthur makes a decision in Strawberry.
Relationships: Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 159





	Shoot Fellas As Needs Shooting

Strawberry was in chaos. Arthur swore aloud, his words drowned by the bark of gunfire. A few rounds slammed into the barrels he had hunkered behind, each one threatening to punch through. It seemed the entire town had rallied against them; fire was raining in from all over.

There was a lull in the gunfire. Arthur poked his carbine over the barrel and fired; one of the lawmen fell. Another shot went clean through the eye of a second. Distantly, more shouting echoed.

Micah ran past, firing from the hip. Arthur looked up; he was headed for the bridge, away from the horses. Where the hell was did that fool think he was going?

“Don’t go that way!” Arthur called out. “Let’s get the hell outta here!”

“I got some unfinished business,” Micah drawled back, “Trust me, Morgan.”

“Trust you?” Arthur spat, hurrying after. “You have finally lost your damn mind!”

Another hail of gunfire opened up, this time from the other end of the bridge. Micah dove for cover on this side, a bullet grazing his shoulder and sending a trail of blood through the air. Arthur made a run for it, hunkering down behind a rock across from him.

Micah broke cover, dashing up the bridge and felling another lawman. He was firing wildly, running near-suicidally into the fray. But with their focus distracted, Arthur calmly dispatched another two. That was already several more than necessary. He swore again.

“You god-damned lunatic!” he pushed up the bridge. “I shoulda left you to hang!”

“We’re in it now, Morgan!” Micah retorted. “What do you wanna do?”

He kept going, taking cover at the junction where the bridge met the next street. Arthur followed, laying down fire even as more lawmen surged out to meet them.

“C’mon!” Micah jeered, caught in the rush of bloodshed. “Send ‘em all out!”

He shot another, putting two more rounds into the poor bastard as he fell. Arthur scrambled to reload, pouring another load of shot into the carbine.

“We should be long gone by now!” he spat, even as Micah gunned another down.

“They got something of mine I ain’t leaving without!”

“Who?!” he demanded, but Micah didn’t care to reply. He ran on, shouting taunts and jeers at the lawmen. Arthur closed the gap, gunning down two more at close range.

More gunfire sounded; reinforcements were pushing up against them. Micah was still jeering and yelling, pistols blazing as he cut his way down towards the end of the street.

“Lets go!” he demanded.

“Where we going?!”

“Making a house call!” he grinned wickedly. One of the lawmen lined up a shot; Micah was too far gone to notice. Arthur splattered the poor bastard’s brains over the mud before he could fire. That seemed to be the last of them; the hail of gunfire went quiet.

“We really should get outta here!” he said quickly; that had been too close, and no doubt more men were incoming.

“Calm yourself, woman!” Micah chuckled. “Like I said, I need to see someone.”

The street ended with a small muddy roundabout. The dirt was stained crimson; at least a dozen bodies lay crumpled here, not counting the many more back up the street, over the bridge and towards the jailhouse.

How many more were going to have to die, he wondered. Now he had a moment to think he could see they weren’t even all law; while most had the silver star pinned to their breast, he counted at least four corpses who were just townsfolk joining the defence.

Micah was here to settle a score, and he would no doubt carve his way through every man in town if he had to. Arthur could feel his blood boiling; they were meant to be lying low, only shooting folks as needed shooting, and yet this bastard had seen fit to butcher his way through half the town on some revenge quest.

Arthur already knew his own feelings towards Micah. The bastard had been nothing but trouble since he’d joined the gang, dropping slurs at every opportunity and picking fights whenever he felt like it. He revelled in bloodshed in the way Dutch claimed they weren’t supposed to. After all, that was the only thing separating them from folks like the O’Driscolls.

And he’d been the one who’s half-baked robbery plans had gone south at Blackwater. He’d been egging Dutch on for weeks with tales of money on that boat, and the moment they’d got their hands on it the Pinkertons had swept in. That had been a set-up: someone had to have talked, and Arthur had half a mind as to who.

There was nobody else around; those not dead had run for cover. Micah approached one of the houses, pounding on the door with his fists.

“Skinny! Get out here!” he roared. “Skinny!”

The door opened just a crack. Arthur couldn’t see inside, but he could hear voices from beyond the door.

“It ain’t Skinny, Micah,” a gruff voice said indignantly, “It’s Norman!”

That was the mistake. Micah raised his gun and fired through the gap before Norman even had a chance to react. He gasped, stumbling forwards; Micah seized him by the shirt and dragged him out onto the porch. He staggered and fell, gasping and groaning.

“You always was a let-down,” Micah sneered down at him, “You fat sack of crap.” With a final groan, the man slumped, dead.

“Excuse me a minute, Arthur,” Micah growled. Arthur wasn’t even sure they had a minute before the law turned up, but he held his tongue. Everything about this was wrong, and all that he wanted to say was a long line of expletives aimed straight at his so-called ally.

He slung his carbine. Micah grinned and stepped through the door. He no doubt expected to be left alone, but Arthur was at his limit; he waited until it swung shut then followed, determined to find out exactly what was so important that Micah saw fit to cause a massacre over it.

“Hello, Maddy,” Micah’s voice echoed from inside, his tone barbed and cruel. Arthur stepped through. “Did ya miss me?”

Micah was standing, guns still drawn, over a terrified looking woman. He turned to see the interruption, and Arthur could see the bloodlust glinting in his eyes. He decided it then; enough was enough.

Everything seemed to slow to a crawl. Rat or not, Arthur wasn’t going to let the bastard kill any more innocents. Before Micah could even properly realise he was there Arthur drew and fired.

It was point-blank. The volcanic pistol roared with fury and spat death. Micah’s face caved in, skull cracking and shattering from the force. The bullet flew on, slamming into the wood of the wall. A wave of blood, brain, and bone fragments followed, splattering across the surface in a grisly display.

The woman screamed. Micah slumped, blood spurting from the hole through his head, mangled face frozen halfway between a cruel smile and a look of shock, and collapsed into a heap. Arthur let out a deep breath, one he hadn’t even realised he was holding until now.

“Relax, ma’am,” he grunted. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.” She just shivered, too afraid to say anything.

He knew Dutch would have his head for this; shooting one of their own, even a bastard like Micah, wouldn’t sit well. He looked around the room, his gaze settling on the table. There sat a surprisingly fancy gun belt slung over the back of a chair, both holsters carrying well-decorated revolvers. An idea began to form.

Looking back at the woman, he drew one of the revolvers from the gun belt. He fired it into the fireplace; she jumped, another strangled scream escaping her throat.

“Easy, ma’am,” he tried to reassure. He took the revolver by the barrel, still smoking, and offered it grip-first to her. She looked up at him, confused and afraid. “Go on; take it.” Her trembling hand closed around the grip.

“There,” he said calmly, “Now there’s a spent shell in there. If anyone asks; you shot this bastard,” -he kicked Micah’s crumpled corpse- “In self-defence.” She remained silence. “I was never in here, okay? Do we have an understandin’?”

Very slowly, the woman nodded her head. He stepped back, letting go his grip on the revolver’s barrel, and headed for the door.

“There was a mighty large bounty on his head,” he added as he opened it. “I’m sure they’d be willin’ to give some to a poor widow.” She nodded silently, still shaking all over.

He slipped outside. In the couple of minutes he’d been inside vultures had began to descend on the streets. Distantly he heard the sound of thundering hooves echo up from the valley below; no doubt a large posse was racing up. He looked back at the corpse of Norman one last time and ran for where he’d left Montag hitched.

* * *

He rode hard all through the night, cutting north through the foothills of the Grizzlies to avoid the law. Mounted patrols were scouring the hills all around the area, and he knew that sooner or later the Pinkertons would also be in town. So he pressed on, even as Montag panted and whinnied and he felt himself growing tired. They could both rest at camp.

It was late in the morning by the time they finally reached the turn off for Horseshoe Overlook, after two days of hard travel. They’d been staying at the campsite long enough now that Arthur didn’t need to direct him; Montag trotted in of his own accord, hooves clopping against the dry earth as he followed the familiar route back home.

In his head Arthur went over the story again, determined to make sure he didn’t drop any details that might give away the truth. He was in no doubt Micah had deserved that bullet, but he couldn’t be sure the others would agree. Dutch worried him most of all; Micah had wormed his way into that man’s mind like a damn snake.

“Who goes there?” called out a voice from the brush. Between the tiredness and his thoughts, it took Arthur a second to even realise he’d been challenged. He looked over to see Javier taking first watch, leaning against a tree with a repeater in his hands.

“Arthur!” Arthur called back.

“You don’t look so good, hombré,” Javier observed.

“I don’t feel too good neither,” Arthur grumbled, easing off of Montag’s back. The horse whinnied, before trotting off towards the nearest feeding point. “Where is everyone?”

“Mostly in camp,” Javier shrugged. “Hosea and Uncle headed into town earlier for supplies, and Charles is out hunting, but the rest should be around. Where’s Micah?”

“It’s a long story,” Arthur deflected; Javier saw the look in his eyes, and frowned. “I need to speak to Dutch.”

“He should be in his tent.”

“Thanks,” Arthur shrugged. He walked slowly up towards the centre of camp. Javier followed, curiosity overriding his sense of duty.

Dutch was exactly where Arthur would have expected. He was standing by the entrance to his tent, a cigar between his lips and cash in his hands, no doubt counting out the earnings of one of the gang’s latest jobs. The moment he saw the pair he set the bills down and pulled the cigar from his mouth, throwing it to the ground and stamping it out.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted, only for his smile to fade when he saw that Arthur had returned alone. His expression grew harsh. “Where’s Micah?”

Arthur spat into the grass. “He’s dead, Dutch.”

“Dead?!” Dutch exclaimed. “Mister Morgan I told you to bring him back alive! What in God’s name happened?!”

“He didn’t hang, if that’s what you’re asking,” Arthur said slowly. “I broke him out alright, but he wouldn’t leave town. Said he had a goddamn call to make.”

“So you left him?!”

“‘Course not!” he growled. “I had to kill near half the town to keep ‘em off him. Turns out he had some unfinished business with a fella in town, probably someone he used to run with. He went right up to the poor bastard’s house and shot him dead.” By now other gang members had started to take notice. Many had stopped what they were doing to listen, and a few were approaching. “But that wasn’t enough for him,” Arthur continued, “Oh no, he went into the goddamn house. The fella’s wife jumped and shot him.”

“And you did nothing?” Dutch was looking down, trying to process the information.

“What the hell was I supposed to do?!” Arthur demanded. “He was in there and dead before I had a chance to do a thing. And I ain’t gonna shoot a widow for defendin’ herself.”

“I see,” Dutch said quietly, gaze firmly on the dirt. “Everyone, get back to work! I need some time, alone, to think about this.”

He walked away slowly, not looking back. The others were silent, not quite sure what to say or do.

“You heard the man!” Miss Grimshaw’s voice split the air. “Back to work! All of you! Especially you, Miss O’Shea!”

Arthur shrugged, slowly walking away. As he did he could hear Dutch cursing from inside his tent, and murmurs among the others about how another loss was the last thing they needed. He sighed, heading back out towards the hitching posts.

“Dutch!”

He stopped walking and looked up. It was Hosea, riding in on one of the camp wagons with Uncle beside him. He was clearly agitated, and under his arm was tucked a crumpled newspaper. He pulled the wagon right up into camp and leapt down, hurrying over to Dutch’s tent. Miss Grimshaw immediately started corralling the girls to unload the cargo.

“Not now, Hosea,” Dutch growled from inside his tent. The fabric was hardly soundproof, so it wasn’t hard to listen in.

“You’re gonna want to see this,” Hosea countered. “It’s news from Strawberry, came in by wire overnight.”

“I have heard,” Dutch rebuffed. “Mister Morgan has already informed me about Micah.” Hosea glanced over at Arthur, before setting down the paper on the table beside the tent.

“Maybe not all of it,” Hosea argued. “As much as I’m sure Arthur reliably relayed his side of the story, there’s likely more to it than that.”

Arthur tried not to look worried. But the seed of doubt had been planted; had the woman told the law and the papers the truth? If so then he was in a whole heap of trouble.

The unloading effort fell apart immediately. Despite Miss Grimshaw’s protests the girls hurried over again, hungry for more information, and Pearson and Uncle followed. As Arthur went to join it seemed everyone else came out of the woodwork, all wanting to see the news.

“Fine,” Dutch said bluntly, emerging again from the tent. The others parted to let him through; he leant down over the table, scanning the paper intently.

Only when he straightened again after a moment could Arthur see the paper. The headline, printed in massive bold font across the whole page, read:

** _Widow Defends Herself; Notorious Outlaw Slain!_ **

Arthur tried not to look relieved. He read over the page, feeling the tension leave his body as he did so:

_ A frightful scene played out in peaceful Strawberry yesterday morning. An unidentified outlaw, believed to be a member of the notorious Van Der Linde Gang, staged an attack upon the town jail in an attempt to free recently imprisoned criminal Micah Bell III. After destroying the wall of his cell, the outlaw joined Bell in making a bloody escape through town. _

_ Despite the valiant efforts of local officers of the law the pair fought their way clear of the jail. At this point Mr. Bell approached the house of Mr. Norman O’Hara, a man with whom he is believed to have had grievances in the past, and proceeded to shoot Mr. O’Hara dead in a display of supreme savagery. _

_ Having been warned by her husband and afraid for her own life, his wife Madeline concealed herself behind the door-frame of the house. When Mr. Bell forced his way in, she greeted him with a single gunshot wound to the head. She was found by officials still clutching the smoking gun, though she was too startled to relay much of her tale until well after the fact. _

_ Though the battle left dozens of lawmen dead in the streets, and many still fear the threat of such violent gangs, the people of West Elizabeth may rest easy knowing at least one of the notorious gang has been brought down. The State Legislature has agreed that the bounty upon Mr. Bell’s head, a sum of $800, is to be paid in full to Mrs. O’Hara for her brave action. _

_ Agents of the Pinkerton Detective Agency have been summoned from Blackwater, and plan to scour the surrounding country where the remains of the Van Der Linde gang are believed to be hiding. It is hoped that in short order the rest of these violent criminals shall meet the same fate as Mr. Bell. _

“It seems they haven’t managed to pick up our trail,” Dutch observed dryly. “That’s something, at least. But we can’t keep taking losses like this. This is to be the last one, alright? Does everyone understand that?! No more trading lives! From now on we all need to stick to the plan, and have faith!”

There were nods and murmurs of assent all around. Arthur nodded along, still trying to hide the relief surging through him.

“Arthur?” Hosea asked quietly. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Sure,” Arthur shrugged.

“Come with me.” Hosea led him away from the group, out onto the cliff top on the northwest edge of the campsite. He sat down by the edge, gesturing for the younger man to sit beside him. His expression grew bleak. “I can’t say I agree with you killing one of our own,” he half-whispered, making sure nobody else could hear.

“What are you saying, Hosea?”

“I’m saying I don’t believe a terrified widow could have taken that shot,” he admitted. “I think Dutch suspects it too, but you know him. He’ll believe what he wants to believe, and he doesn’t want to believe you would do that. I’m not so sure about the others, but I should think you’re fairly safe.”

Arthur was silent for a moment, not sure what to say. When he did finally speak, it was with quiet but firm conviction.

“We should never have let him join,” he said. “All the shit he said about Tilly, about Lenny, and Charles; what he tried to do to Sadie; what he got Dutch to do on that boat; none of it was right. Dutch always says we save fellas as needs saving, and shoot fellas as needs shooting, and in that moment Mrs. O’Hara needed saving and Micah needed shooting. And he was a goddamn rat; I’m sure of that.”

“How so?”

“From what I’ve heard the moment we had the money the Pinkertons were everywhere,” he explained. “Even Dutch thinks we were set up. And who’s plan was it? Who was the only one of us besides Dutch who knew all the details? He talked, Hosea, whether you like it or not.”

“Do you think he told them we were here?” Hosea asked cautiously.

“I don’t know,” Arthur admitted. “I’m not sure he ever had the time, but they could just be making a show of searching near Strawberry for the papers. We’ll have to keep an eye out.”

“You’re right about that,” Hosea said dryly. “I trust your judgement, Arthur, I always have, so for now I’ll keep what I know to myself and try and keep Dutch from taking any drastic measures. I just hope your intuition was right, for all of our sakes."


End file.
